


JOS on the Boulevard of Broken Dreams

by KieranVieran



Category: Green Day, Real Person Fiction
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Gen, No Slash, References galore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-06
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-04-18 00:18:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14200798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KieranVieran/pseuds/KieranVieran
Summary: "Life has become more about survival than anything else. In it’s darker moments, Billie’s conscience spits back the all too familiar lyrics plaguing him..."





	1. Chapter 1

20XX. Somewhere between Kansas and Idaho.

* * *

The truth is, no one knows anymore. No one cares anymore. Mike used to care... He, uh, had a whole map and a calendar, and everything. They’d sit by the fire, planning and talking - sometimes joking around all night if that’s what it took to have a plan by morning.

 Now? There’s less talk. More planning but it’s like all the air has left everyone’s lungs. Even Tré hardly says a word these days. Life has become more about survival than anything else. In it’s darker moments, Billie’s conscience spits back the all too familiar lyrics plaguing him.

* * *

Billie’s always the first to wake up. Perpetually exhausted, he still manages it every day. It hardly surprises them anymore, he is “Uno” after all. He douses the remains of the fire until they’re smoldering and goes to scrub out their mismatched cutlery in the nearest clean water possible.

Mike’s the second. Of course. Rubbing sleep from his eyes and stumbling up to his feet, as if he were still a hungover 17 year old renting a room from Billie’s Mom. He deals with the outer edges of their campsites, burning or discarding bits of trash, piling together laundry and blankets, and other similar tasks Tré should _never_ be trusted with.

Occasionally, in these few hours shortly after dawn but before Tré ever wakes up; Billie will spot Mike, or vice versa, and they won’t say a word. Just stare quietly, both heartbroken with neither wanting to mention anything. Not that there are many smalltalk-worthy topics now that the world’s dead.

 Eventually, after much feet dragging, Tré gets up and has a cup of the weakest black coffee probably left in existence. Which, because he’s Tré, has him remark something to the effect of, “Man, coffee in this shithole certainly has gone downhill since the end of the world.” It’s stupid and doesn’t always make sense (as a result of him saying it even when they don’t have instant coffee) but that’s Tré for you. Secretly, Tré says this because he knows it’ll make Billie smile (a rarity) and a vein pop out from Mike’s forehead by referring to it as coffee (less rare, given it’s a daily occurrence but Mike’s no less offended than he was when it started six months ago).

However, that single bit - without fail - unlocks something in Mike and Billie, gives them permission almost to come back alive. It’s strange but it isn’t long until it’s like the old days again. The three men settle into their time-tested tradition of half-messing-around and half-actually-getting-work-done.

In the end, it’s about noon before they’re ready to hit the road again. With nothing but three backpacks, a full shopping cart (Thank you, Cormac McCarthy) and three worn pairs of Chuck Taylors. Oh, and Blue, of course. Billie Joe would die without that guitar. You didn’t think he wouldn’t have it, did you?

* * *

 It’s raining now and they’ve decided it’s bad enough to hunker down and wait in an old trainyard no less. Mike can see what Billie’s thinking, as he places a hand on his shoulder. "C’mon Bill, we need to find Tré before he lights a tumbleweed on fire and burns this whole place down.”

  “I suppose. It’s just— I miss it. That’s all.”

  “I know you do. I do too.”

Then Billie’s eyes light up and Mike knows he’s off to the races, bolting towards the nearest open train car. Tré’s not the only one who’s a bit of a wind-up toy. Mike - he just grins and goes to find wherever Tré has run off to.

Billie drops his bag and rummages through it until he finds what he’s been looking for. An old spray can of red paint. “It’s been awhile... “ He apologizes to the object as if it could hear him. “Ok, let’s see if I still got this…”

He hops up on an old crate and tests the spray can first. Satisfied it’ll still work, he scrawls out the first words that come to mind.

SOMEWHERE NOW, MY SHALLOW HEART'S THE ONLY THING THAT’S BEATING.

 READ BETWEEN THE LINES, YOUNGBLOOD

MY FRIENDS ARE GONE AND I’VE GOT NOTHING TO DO

 OH LOVE, WISH I COULD GO HOME TO CHRISTIE ROAD

HOME TO YOU

  LET’S GO BACK TO GILMAN’S STREET

YOU AND I

               FOR 80

 - THE TRUE JESUS OF SUBURBIA

He leaves knowing she’ll never find it, the off-kilter words. That she won’t ever see these scrawled out on the subway car in Manhattan or that overturned UPS truck they left behind in Alabama of all places. Much less in this random ass boxcar in the middle of nowhere, but hey, it helps. It also varies, sometimes he ad-libs more, adds a different lyric or changes a phrase.

He isn’t gone for long but long enough to make up his mind. Green Day’s going home.


	2. Chapter 2

Tré instantly agrees, if for nothing else than to play one more gig at Gilman. Mike once he gets back from the wild goose chase Tré sent him on seems more hesitant. He’s always been the most level headed of the trio.

Mike sighs, “I’m just worried, you won’t get the closure you’re looking for. That’s it.” “I know. But it couldn’t hurt to try, right? I mean—” Billie tried, he tried to get Mike to see how this was a great thing and a _good_ idea. 

“Don’t go getting sappy on me,”  Tré interrupts half-jokingly, “Last thing we need to hear is that YOU blew your brains out into The Bay. ‘Specially you, you emo motherfucker.”

“Jesus Christ, Tré! I’m definitely NOT suicidal. Is that _really_ what you think this idea is?” He says looking between his two bandmates defensively. Mike’s playing with the ends of his fraying shoelaces and Tré’s trying his best not to look Billie in the eye. More importantly, they aren’t answering his question. 

“Oh, FUCK. Wow. Really!? _Both_ of you?” Billie glances over at Tré, whose hair while it hasn’t been blue for years now, is still shaved into a short mohawk. No one’s really sure how, but the thought is a welcome if fleeting distraction.

“Mike?” He whines the former bassist’s name like a little kid trying to get his old brother’s attention.

Mike shakes his head a little at his shoes before looking up to face his oldest friend AND HE’S PISSED. “Honestly!? Yes! YES, BILLIE!” Mike yells, feeling like a weight’s been lifted off his chest. And that’s when Billie’s brain loses it. Mike goes into a state of shock almost and isn’t entirely sure what to do, while Billie runs because of course he does.

“You just had to cock that up, didn’t you?” Tré said accusatorially, growling a final “Teenagers, the fuckin’ both of you.” before jogging in the direction Billie had headed, weaving between the rusted trains. Mike didn’t hear him. Or at least, he did, but it didn’t register really. Instead, he sort of trailed behind Tré...

* * *

At any rate, it didn’t take Tré long to find him. After all, they’re both in their late 40’s, slowing down is just a biological fact by this point. A shitty one but still non-negotiable.

Anyway when Tré does find him, he’s sat on the roof of yet another open cargo train. Someone must’ve had the bright idea of clearing out the railyards after all the Walmarts and 7/11s of the world had been picked clean. Smart bastard.

Billie even didn’t look at him before shouting for him to “Fucking, go away. Asshole.” Tré, to his credit, stopped dead in his tracks but didn’t completely relent. “No can do, BJ. See, cause I’m gonna be stuck on this gravelly spot until you come down from there.”

“What if I don’t wanna?” Billie pouted like a toddler. Tré rolled his eyes. “Really, man? Wanna? What are you - five?”

“Maybe, you’ve certainly never acted your age.” Tré couldn’t help but smile, the words ‘Look who's talkin’ are stuck on the tip of his tongue. He’s almost glad Billie refused to meet him eye-to-eye, at least right now.

"You’re a dick, you know that? Being all childish and shit… I mean, who runs away from an argument in his _forties_?” Billie looked up at him with a mask of indifference, and causally retorted, “No, I’m an asshole. There’s a difference.” Tré chuckled at that, with the perfect response in his comedy arsenal.

“Oh, really, Billie. What? That a dick’s what you put in an asshole?” “Ugh. Gross, Tré!” Billie shouts again, this time sounding like a stereotypical Valley girl. “Hey! We both toured with Pansy Division. You know I can do this all day if I have to. So please, don’t make me.”

“Besides, you’re going to freeze to death if you stay up there all night. Particularly with the rain the way it is,” Mike added finally snapping out of it, ever the voice of reason, “We obviously need to talk about… things and I have an apology to make.” 


	3. Chapter 3

It wasn’t much longer before Tré had a steady fire going. Although the nearby wooden pallets and/or cardboard boxes were pretty much all water-logged and rotting, Tré had his ways with fire.

Which was a very good thing for one freezing and drenched Billie Joe Armstrong. If Mike wasn’t worried about Billie before, he most certainly was now, and it showed. Especially in how he chucked a (relatively) clean set of clothes at the guitarist’s head. “Don’t argue with me. I don’t want to hear it. Go change before you get pneumonia.”

Billie didn’t respond, opting to give his oldest friend the silent treatment, nonetheless he listened to the advice. He went just out of sight to change. Well, that’s what he told himself as he waited for the opportunity to eavesdrop on his bandmates. However, there are some answers you simply don’t ever want to hear.

* * *

 As an example, Mike confiding in Tré, “I don’t know how to help anymore. It used to be that we could just drag him to therapy or something. Now, we can’t and he seems _lost_ in a way he hasn’t been for years now. I’m not just worried for him, I’m scared for him, Tré.”

“Maybe, hear me out, he could be right. About going back to Oakland. Getting closure, seeing home.”

“I don’t know, Tré. Not if he’s only going back there to die. Fuck that. Oh, and Billie? I know you’re listening. Get over here.” A shirtless Billie Joe hesitantly trudged towards the light of the fire, before sitting on a nearby milk crate, still holding the shirt in his right hand. “You accidentally gave me Tré’s shirt.”

“No, I didn’t. I was testing you. Seeing if you’d eavesdrop.” Billie’s eyes widened, before he put the mask back on and nonchalantly said, “You— You— Whatever.”

“See, this what I meant by him being the emo one.” Tré diffused the rising tension the only way he knew how - with humor. They all laughed because it was infectious. Damn Tré’s comedic timing. Then it was back to the seriousness of the post-apocalypse, unfortunately.

 “So Bill, are you?” Mike asked carefully, not wanting Billie to explode on him again.

“Going home to die?”

Mike nodded, waiting for the answer to Billie’s own rhetorical question. No judgement, no anger, just apprehension.

Tré kept his head down and stoked the fire just to have something to do with his hands. He didn't want to be dragged into another argument if it came to that.

“Honestly? I’m not even sure if I know myself. I’ve felt... that way before but, I don’t know. Is that fucked up?” He said as he shrugged, rubbing his cold hands in front of the warm fire.

“I don't know what to say to that.” Mike replied candidly.

“I do. With us, man, I would be surprised if there was anything that wasn’t fucked up.” Tré interjected sarcastically, “Given that the end of the world happened and all.”

“We know, as you so delightfully like to remind us. Every single second,” Mike said, clapping him upside the head for being stupid. Billie chuckled at their antics, before realizing how damn hungry he felt. No surprise there, they’d been walking for hours until the rain started pouring. Thank God, it seemed to let up a bit. It’s barely drizzling.

* * *

 “Mike - we got anything to eat?”

“Not much. A few cans, a loose MRE or two. God, what I wouldn’t give for a steak?” Mike groaned, digging through the duffle bag that held their food and disposable tableware. “Or pot,” Tré added, amused.

“Or air conditioning. Hell, I’d rather be in the Bookmobile,” Billie replies, causing Tré to roll his eyes.

“What?” Billie said, tossing him a spare glance. Tré didn’t respond not directly. They all knew with who and where Billie Joe would rather be right now and it’s most certainly not in their ex-rolling library.

To break the uneasy silence Mike tossed a can of potato soup to each of them, which they both broke open with a scuffed up pocketknife Billie hangs onto. “How come you get the last of lentils?” Mike huffed, “Because, Tré, I carried the duffel up that steep ass hill and it’s surprisingly goddamn heavy.”

Billie raised his hand sheepishly. “That’d be my fault. Frying pan, it was in the last house we stayed in.” They all burst out laughing. “Why?” Tré eventually managed to ask, still wheezing somewhat.

“It’s gonna sound hella stupid but I wanted to make pancakes someday.” Mike audibly snorts but Tré immediately charges Billie - tackling him and petting his greasy unwashed-in-a-week hair like he was an adorable puppy. Momentarily, Billie Joe considers shoving him off, like Tré expects him to. And yes, while he is a tiny bit pissed, given these clothes were _clean_ ; in the end, it’s only a joke. So... Billie Joe decides to mess with Tré, hauling him halfway into his own lap, and ruffling his hair with his right hand, before pressing a kiss into the back of his shoulder. Mike cleared his throat awkwardly, which distracted Tré and afforded the infamous Two dollar Bill his opportunity. With his other hand, he gave Tré a big fat wet willie. From Billie.

The ex-drummer leapt off of Billie Joe, yelling and cursing the entire time. Mike laughed until he was out of breath. “Oh, yeah. Laugh and laugh, Mikey. But now, let it be known Billie has declared a war. A prank war.”

“ _Please_ , spare us the melodramatics... “ Billie Joe rolled his eyes, “We’re not doing this.”

Mike turned from happy and light-hearted to almost… fearful, whiny even, when he realized Tré was serious. “No!!! Not _AGAIN!!!_ Please not that. Please, Tré. No....”

Trouble is, he was awful at convincing anyone, he pleaded and begged like a little kid. There was a reason BJ had been the frontman, playing first bat during interviews, Mike was atrocious at poker. Or baseball. Whatever. Point is, his game face _sucked._

Tré just laughed and relented easily, but not without having crossed fingers behind his back. He’ll get his revenge, just not right now.


	4. Chapter 4

They never stayed long in a place. It was getting colder with every passing day, and as cliche as it sounded - winter was coming. The leaves were turning brown and crackling under their feet. Always kept moving, they had to.

Even with the relatively high number of “quiet days” where boredom is the main threat, it never hurts to stay alert. Too many have lost their humanity to desperation.

Sometimes they could even make that argument about themselves. After all, everything they owned, Blue included, was once owned by someone else. Even the clothes on their backs, they were hauled out of a charity collection bin in a grocery store parking lot. An action that had Billie seriously reconsidering his stance on religion and whether or not he would be going to Hell.

In the end, though, none of that mattered much. Those clothes were already destined to go to whoever needed them the most and they did. Them. Besides, Billie Joe had already bad-mouthed Christianity enough to warrant a one-way trip downstairs after his departure, if it came to that.

* * *

Looking back on it, it only became creepier as they left the cities for the suburbs. The cities were rioting, chaos like water boiling over, sheer violence erupted. In theory, it had taken longer to reach the perfectly manicured suburban lawns and the not-so perfect inhabitants inside. They had the time to flee, granted only a few days more than the cities… but still… It's a shame not many people listened. Even after the horrific shit they’ve seen, not much is sadder than the sight of a child’s flashburn. A permanent shadow imprinted on the wall of a bookstore or on the steps of their school. Billie tries not to look, out of respect. Mike will stare at them; as if he could be a cosmic witness to the aftermath of Death, cataloguing each one in his memory. Tré pretends that he doesn't see them or simply ignores their existence. It's easier than confronting reality straight on.

* * *

 “Some call it nice. Some call it slums,” Tré sings happily, rolling his eyes at a house that looked more like a water damaged construction site than a sample of the white-picket representation of the American Dream™.

“You’re misquoting me, the lyrics are backwards - and you’re off-key.” Billie grumbles tiredly into the handlebar of their ‘liberated’ Stater Bros. shopping cart.

Mike answered, “With Tré’s voice, I think the song would’ve been more of Paradise Lost than Welcome to Paradise.”

They all laughed quietly. The sound echoed through the empty suburban homes. It was bittersweet. Hunting for a dry place to sleep in a mostly flooded neighborhood. Eventually after much more walking, they found such a place. The upstairs floor caved in and broken glass and soggy pictures littered the impassible stairs, but hey, c'mon. It was dry and old enough to have a wood-burning fireplace. It'll do.

“I walk a lonely road, the only one that I have ever known…” Billie sang under his breath, as he plopped down on the couch, causing a fine layer of dust (moving for the first time in years) to send him into a coughing fit. Mike stared at him a little funny, preferring to sit on the wooden subfloor to an asthma attack. “It's strange. Did we?”

“Did we what– Mikey?” Billie asked still catching his breath, confused.

Mike laughed, looking up at Billie. “Did we predict the end of the world?” Tré shrugged, still hunched over the tiny fire he was determined to protect, “I don't know. 2004 was a weird year.”

“No doubt about that.” An unfamiliar voice commented confidently. There was a man standing just within earshot and just out of sight.

Who the fuck are you!?” Billie said with venom in his eyes. “Name's Benji and I’m unarmed. Oh, right, probably should stop lurking in the shadows.”

“Ya think, kid!?” Tré scoffed before anyone else could say a word. The lurking “kid” by Tré’s standards, as he stepped closer to the fire, revealed himself to be a scruffy but lanky twenty-something brunette. Who was shorter than even Billie and looked more like a Boy Scout or a farmhand than a punk rocker. Maybe grunge, maybe.

His voice was high but serious and firm, as he said, “Look, I just wanted to warn you. You're about to walk into a war zone. Some disputed territory up ahead and there’s nothing anyone loves more than the bragging rights of killing 3 ‘enemies’."

Billie’s gaze softened a tiny bit, considering the information before quietly asking, “How do you know? How did you even get in here?”

He shrugged nonchalantly; in way a few years ago wouldn’t have happened, with what he was about to say,  “I got away from them. They were about to execute me, had a gun against my head. I escaped two weeks ago now. I’m on my way home.”

“Ok, I’ll bite. Who’s ‘they’?” Tré looked over at Billie, in disbelief, as the ex-frontman’s posture relaxed. More shock really, that he’s suddenly taking this kid— This _stranger_ , at his word.

“The Dragons. Or specifically, The Draconic Order.” The brown-haired young vagabond replied 100% completely serious. “Why does that sound like a bad DnD name?” Mike said as an attempt to lighten the mood, his bandmates still warily eyeing the stranger. “I couldn’t tell you. May I?” Benji politely gestures towards an open spot near Tré.

“Sure, _sure_ , sit down. D’you also want some dinner with that?” “Tré, don’t be rude. Here, kid. You can sit next to me,” Billie said, pulling his backpack up and tossing it on the other side of himself, giving the kid room on the moth-eaten couch.

“To tell you the truth, it wasn’t an accident I found you.” Benji smiled and accepted Billie’s offer gratefully, as it was near freezing outside of the range of the fire’s warmth. “What does that mean!?” Billie stared at him incredulously, his back straightening out and his eyes narrowing once again. “It means I know who you are. Or rather, who you used to be.” Benji pauses, shaking his head, “I shouldn’t even be here.”

"What makes you say that?” Mike asks curiosity killing caution. “I’m supposed to be on patrol. Looking out for any stray Dragons,” Benji replied assuredly, “But instead, I’m following you.”

“Let me guess, you’re from the other side of this war. Some other faction fighting over the disputed territory. Wanting to recruit us?”, Tré scoffed. “Nope, you couldn’t be more wrong actually. I was thrown out. Dishonorable discharge from what’s left of the US Army. Assholes.”

“Why?” Mike asked quietly, like it was a secret, fidgeting with an old lighter he didn’t remember grabbing out of his pocket. Benji’s grey eyes now looked older than his years, as he explained, “I saved a kid, a little one, barely old enough to hold a gun. But he was also the enemy so when I brought him back.... They, uh, um, they wanted him interrogated. Broken down, turned into a husk. I refused. I refused to let anyone touch him. He didn’t look any older than seven. Turns out, he’s _twelve_.”

Billie Joe raised his eyebrow, “So why warn us? And tell us all of this? Especially if you’re headed back home, y’know?”

Benji rolled up his left sleeve, exposing a familiar-sounding tattoo written in dark red ink on his pale inner forearm, the font making it look like someone had just written it with a sharpie. Son of Rage and Love.

Billie smirked, Tré laughed, and Mike shook his head. “Before you say anything, _yes_ , I know it’s permanent.”  Benji murmured sarcastically, fixing his flannel’s sleeve as all of the band formerly known as Green Day started to laugh. “But to answer your question with words, I don’t know. I don’t have any obligations or connections to you, aside from being an old fan, of course. But I felt like I should warn you anyway.”

Tré’s unsurprisingly the first to break the silence that formed, saying with sincerity,  “We appreciate that.” “How far does this ‘warzone’ extend?” Mike, forever the pragmatist, asked. Billie stayed quiet, listening.

“The entire valley up ahead. About the next county or two, from here. There's a checkpoint not three blocks that way. You were about to walk into it.” Billie returned to looking serious. “US Army or the Dragons?”

Benji shrugs, “Either, depends when you go. Last I checked, it was the Dragons, so I had to haul ass and go the long way. Waited the whole week for my chance to get up to the market in Woden. Now, i'm, uhh… Now, I’m on way back but I can’t make it before sundown. The valley, it, uh, gets worse at night.”

“It’s Monday?” Tré muttered in awe that anyone who care to remember the days of the week. As if doing such was a luxury, an expense. Benji smiled, happy to correct him, “No, it should be Tuesday by now. That’s the one great thing in the apocalypse. I finally have a permanent three day weekend since all the capitalists died.”

“Way to find the silver lining, kid,” Mike replied, still somewhat leaning back towards cautious, as he kicked off his waterlogged boots and peeled his wet socks from his feet. The duct tape over the holes had apparently been worn through and the last thing he needed was athlete’s foot. Benji shrugged, “Got to find one somewhere. I just know I have to get back home.” “So do we…” Tré admitted even with Mike glaring daggers at him. Their unexpected visitor grins at that news, half-jokingly announcing, “Well, if you ever need a place to crash on tour. I’m here.”

“Given that you probably just saved our lives with that info. Sure. Fuck it, why not?” Billie said lightening up. “Alright, in that case, you should just probably follow me home. You look like shit and y’all are exhausted. You need rest.”

“Thanks but…” Mike was about to politely decline, but Tré cut him off, yelling, “Thank fuck. I don’t really believe but Christ, thank you.” Tré stopped himself for a moment, “Quick question, as an aside, do you have actual human beds?” “Uh... Yes, I do. I do have real beds.”

And Tré’s categorically inhuman response was to moan. **Loudly**. “See, this is how you know we’ve been on the road for too long,” Billie replies jokingly because legitimately Tré _moaned_. What the fucking hell. Benji just sighed, as if he was expecting something of the sort.

“Sure, you still want us around?” Mike asks warming up to the idea of a post-apocalyptic quartet. Benji scoffs, “ _Well_ , I haven’t been called kid in a long while. So, maybe. Maybe just for my ego, Mike.”

Tré asked impulsively, “Alright, Benji, do you want to stay for dinner?” Everyone, even the newcomer, broke out into hysterics.

Benji grinned, “That’d be… great. Thanks for offering. In fact, if we're having an impromptu potluck. I do have a little something up my sleeve.”

“Oh, what, great kid genius?”

“The standard high fantasy traveling fare. Half a loaf of bread and some cheese. Made fresh before I left.”

"Nerd," Tré says as if it were an automatic pre-programmed response, but he still grabbed a chunk of the crumbly cheese and a slice of bread when offered. "Guilty as charged there. So now, what's our next move?"

"Umm... We don't know yet," Billie replies as Mike is having such a serious battle with their half-dead can opener, it's comically bad and really funny.... 


	5. Chapter 5

Their next move was, as it turned out, to follow the stranger home. "It's not far, just out-of-reach," Benji would say without elaboration as they rounded yet another burnt out corner, after a few hours leaving the silence of half-dead suburbs for the bone-chilling emptiness of a deserted city.  It was near dawn now, they'd slept a few hours and then kept walking, ditching the cart in favor of what they could carry. Passing by a few dead cars and smashed up storefronts, Benji counted them and nodded, murmuring, "This way". He then made a sharp right down an alley, stopping at what was once the backdoor of a pretty pricey club from the looks of it. He knocked three times and "Password?" Benji looked back at the band who were all in various states of shock that he'd kept his word, and y'know not murdered them. "Wraith, plus 3." 

"3? Benny, that's risky," the anonymous voice scolded through the door. Benji rolled his eyes, "Don't remind me, Sharpe. I'll vouch for them. They're old friends."

"I didn't know you had any."

"Likewise, now let us in."

"Fine. No trouble or you'll all be out on your asses. Your kids included, Ben."

"As you so love to remind me," Benji turned back to Billie Joe and asked, "Are you coming?"

"Yeah, yeah, sorry."

"Kids?" Mike whispered to Tré, before being shushed by Billie.

"You alright? Seems to me, you're distracted."

Billie shook his head and they continued on. Passing through a checkpoint, they looked up as they trudged through the battle-scarred club and out it's former main entrance into NOWHERE, as the graffitied highway sign held high over the shipping-container walls declared.

* * *

"A sight for sore eyes. We better hurry. Stick close, not a word and don't touch anything." Mike and Billie Joe looked directly at Tré. "Actually, that goes for all three of you. I need to do the talking and I don't need you lost in the crowd. There's another checkpoint up ahead."

The band solemnly nodded and followed close behind Benji into the single-file line, recognizing they were now very much out of their element. One of the guards, of course said,"Halt!" and Benji smirked the tiniest bit, dropping his bags on a table. Everyone else followed suit, watching as a guard tore apart their bags.

"Name?", the young guard with a clipboard asked impatiently. He didn't look any older than 15, like he should still be on a JV football team somewhere.

"Benjamin Courier"

"Is everyone in your group couriers?" Benji was cool under pressure, "No. Michael Smith, Trey Carpenter and Billie-Joe Merchant." The guard paused to write it down and the older guard, in his 30's, screamed over the bustling crowds, "We got something!" across the checkpoint.

"What is it?" The teenage-guard shouted back.

"Undeclared alcohol. Two bottles of whiskey. Unopened," the guard laughed and lifted the travel-size bottles from Tré's backpack triumphantly.

Really, airplane bottles of whiskey? Where did he even find those? Billie nudged Tré with his shoulder, he couldn't do much more even though he wanted to. Tré's mistake better not cost him a roof over his head. The teen-guard looked back at Benji expectantly, waiting on an answer. "I see you found the gifts my coworker left for you."

"Gifts?" The teen-guard questioned harshly, "You know the penalties for bribery are even worse than for the smuggling, Courier."

Benji dipped his head, eyes quickly darting over to the older guard, who was still pre-occupied with checking the whiskey bottles for damage. After what seemed to be a breathless eternity, the older guard spoke up, "C'mon, son. Let them through and we keep the booze."

"But—"

The older guard didn't argue and just waved them through, tossing their bags at them as they moved forward. The band froze. With Tré still staring at his lost liquor on table, Benji dragged Mike forward by the strap of his backpack and wrapped his right arm around Billie's shoulder. "Overwhelming, I know. Let's get outta here. We can talk at my place."

* * *

Benji guided them through town, like a Border Collie herding with its flock. It was strange to think that a band that once sold out festivals and stadiums... Now was gawking at the size of the crowds in disbelief. Time changes everyone apparently.

"Are we there yet?" 

"No, Tré." Chronos apparently doesn't always do enough.  Benji sighed, "We're on Kergil St. and we need to be on Wilson Rd."

"Fine," Tré rolled his eyes, annoyed. 

"How did they wall off this much of... Where even are we?"

"Nowhere, Billie. Like the sign said. Truth is, we don't what the city was going to be called. It was a newer development in progress. Ambitious, building a brand new city from whence there was none."

"Bit off more than they could chew?" Mike joked with a easygoingness his bandmates hadn't seen in forever.

"Yeah, well we were invaded, weren't we? The war kicked off. The building supplies get diverted. The site was going to be abandoned but the Army trucks stopped coming and—" Benji paused grinning like a madman, "And this is our stop." A five foot high tan brick wall surrounded what was probably intended to be a very uniform townhouse. And compared to the other houses on Wilson Road, it was. Secure brick walls and tall door-like metal gates dominated the few pure chain-link fences. Despite being in relative safety, there was no love lost between neighbors here.

* * *

Benji was quick to toss his bag over the wall and to unclip a key from the chain of his old, scuffed up dog tags and unlock the steel gate. Everyone except Benji froze when they heard the cocking of a pistol and a child's voice yell, "Password!?"

He just sighed and yelled back, "Deadpool, Wil! Deadpool. Now, I'm coming in but I got guests with me. Don't blow any heads off." The gun uncocked and there was some shuffling of footsteps, and a green eye staring at them through the peephole. Benji looked back at the band apologetically as the gate finally opened.

"You're home. We thought you weren't coming back," Wil said flatly, as he just stood there, arms crossed.

Benji was unsurprised, but not amused. "Never. You know that. I'd would never make a promise I couldn't keep." Wil brushed him off holstering the pistol, eventually murmuring, "Still, Dad. Two weeks. Don't scare us like that." Looking past his father, he saw three more strays to feed. Older than most but still in need of a place to stay. _Great_. Wil rolled his eyes and waved them through, much the same way the guards had done at the checkpoint earlier, before he turned and raced up both the walkway and front steps in front of Benji and Tré.

Billie Joe awkwardly readjusted the strap of his backpack and looked at Mike, who was also just standing there. He looked bored and nervous all at the same time. Understandable.

The dusty, dry courtyard wasn't much to look at. Not that it should've been, the age of French-inspired, well manicured American lawns had passed, years ago. Instead, there was a small vegetable garden and a tall sports cooler attached to the repurposed gutter for what looked like collecting rainwater. Smart. Or it would be if it weren't leaking into a bucket on a wooden stool underneath it.

Getting a closer look of the house, it was kinda sad how impressive Benji's place looked. Given, that it looked completely  _normal_.A three story townhouse, with a brown-tile roof and beige stucco. No broken or missing windows. Not a sign of water damage or cracked brick. "The world's gotten so fucked up. That,  _that_ looks like a mansion."

Mike nodded, "I mean, look at us. Someone invites us to crash at their place. And we're marveling at it like it's the Mona Lisa."

Billie scoffed, "Wonder if it's been stolen yet."

"What?"

"The Mona Lisa. Some crazy art collector must have it stashed away by now."

"I don't know. Wasn't it supposed to be in a temperature controlled room or something?"

"I think so... But I—"

"Look," Tré shouted from the open doorway, "Benji says I need to shut the door. Are you coming inside or not?" 

They both burst out laughing and hauled their asses inside. Sometimes Tré can hilarious even if he doesn't always mean to be.


End file.
